


Sunder

by BlueBead



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Emetophobia, Gen, Medical Trauma, graphic depictions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBead/pseuds/BlueBead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Injuries like this were a death sentence for drifters."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunder

Everything’s gone to hell.

Drifter’s and Alt’s expedition through the South felt like a precarious dance with death ever since they first descended into the labs, but now they’ve finally tripped. One of the armored dirks with a missile launcher hadn’t quite scored a direct hit on Drifter, but the force of the nearby explosion send flames and shrapnel tearing through his legs, incapacitating him instantly.

With some miracle, Alt managed to mop up enough enemies to scoop Drifter up and run. She could barely carry Drifter, but it helped that he was still conscious and wasn’t dead weight. He clung, quite possibly for his life, around her neck.

Alt backtracked to an area of the labs they had set up camp in before. It looked like it had once served as room for medical experimentation, if the various abandoned test-tubes, bottles of chemicals, and autoclaves were any clue. As unsettling as the room was, it was isolated and only had one entrance to defend.

As carefully as she could, Alt set Drifter down onto a table in the center of the room. A muffled whine escaped through his gritted teeth when his legs touched the surface. Alt unloaded her equipment onto one of the many counters lining the walls of the room, and then pushed one of the cabinets in front of the door for good measure. It was heavy enough to make her already overworked back complain as she shoved it a crossed the floor, so she hoped it would be enough to keep unwanted visitors out.

Alt turned her attention back to Drifter, who was painstakingly trying to remove his ravaged boots. However, his shaking hands were making the task even more arduous than it already was. His companion bot floated close to his shoulder, pinging its first-aid alert. It was like a pet trying to comfort its master. Alt rooted around in her pack until she found her utility knife. “Stay as still as you can,” Alt ordered as she began carefully cutting away at the destroyed footwear.

Alt removed the least damaged boot first, and was relieved to see that it had absorbed most of the damage. There were a some mild burns and few spots where fragments of metal from the missile had punctured through, but they would be easy enough to remove and mend with a medpack injection. On the other hand, even before removing the boot, she knew Drifter’s right leg was much worse off. The boot was badly burned, and blood oozed out of the gashes in the shoe’s material. There were much larger shards of shrapnel still protruding through. Alt firmly but carefully yanked out the shards that were in the way of removing his boot, and Drifter tensed and hissed through his teeth.

After a painfully slow process of removing the last shoe, the full extent of the damage became apparent. There were cuts so deep they exposed bone, and the rest of the flesh that still clung to Drifter’s leg in its proper place was charred and festering. Both drifters wordlessly took in the sight, the severity of his injury sinking in for both of them.

Alt took in a deep breath, nearly gagged on the smell of blood and pus, as she arrived to a grim conclusion: Drifter’s right leg needed to be amputated. A medpack injection wouldn’t be able to handle an injury this extensive. Too much flesh was already dead or missing entirely. If it wasn’t amputated, then it would be a race to see what would kill him first. Infection, gangrene, septic shock, blood loss… the list could go on and on.

“Drifter…” Alt started, but her words trailed off as she tried to think of a soft way to phrase things. Drifter looked up at her with a mix of physical and mental anguish in his eyes, and her initial resolve began to waver. “...You’re probably thinking what I am too, right? That leg’s not going to be fixed with just a medpack, and there’s probably no way I can safely carry you back to the warp pad to-” Alt’s words died on her tongue as Drifter broke down completely, gasping and shuddering from forceful hiccups and sobs. She knew why. Injuries like this were a death sentence for drifters. Whether he lived or died, his mission and his purpose ended here. Alt knew nothing of his life before she met him, but she had the strong feeling that the only life he knew was wandering, and now he would be anchored down. She knows how miserable a feeling that is.

“I’m going to go get things ready, okay?” Alt murmured, not knowing what else to say. Still quietly whimpering, Drifter nodded reluctantly.

Focusing on the task at hand helped Alt clear the cloud of emotion in her mind. She had learned about amputation back when she studied first-aid and other medical procedures, but she didn’t commit it to memory because it wasn’t something that lone drifters could get much use out of. However, she remembered the essentials: Tourniquet the limb, cut through, flay away the surrounding muscle and skin, file the bone back to smooth it, and then suture the flaps of flesh together over it. It sounded easy enough on paper, but her stomach sank at the thought of actually performing an operation like that herself, especially to someone she cared about.

Searching the room, Alt found some towels that looked clean enough that she could use them to soak up blood. She wondered what they were used for in a lab like this, but pushed that somewhat creepy question out of her head. For a tourniquet, she found some rubber tubing that was the right width and elasticity to get the job done. The pen she kept in her pack would work as a windlass to tighten the tourniquet. Next, for a cutting instrument, Drifter’s sword was the closest thing to ideal she could hope for. Hard light blades are perfectly sterile when you first turn them on, and the edge is extraordinarily sharp. It would be cumbersome for more precise cuts, but she would make it work. Lastly, she already had sutures in her first-aid kit, so that was a given. She only needed a few to keep the wound together while a medpack injection worked its magic.

Alt’s train of thought froze when she realized that they didn’t have anything she could use for local anesthesia. Medpack injections had painkillers mixed in, but it probably wouldn’t be enough for something as severe as cutting through a limb. Not to mention that the regenerative effect would complicate things, such as it attempting to heal the wound before she was finished amputating.  A lump formed in Alt’s throat at the idea of slicing off someone’s leg without numbing the area first. It was funny, she thought. She had killed so many people that she’d lost count. Cut them, stabbed them, shot them, broke bones, spilled blood… and it never fazed her. Not until now.

Alt did have one possible solution. “Do we still have alcohol?” she thought aloud.

“A-as if I’d know… You remember I swore to never drink again... right?” Drifter muttered, his voice still trembling. Oh, Alt remembered alright. Drifter is the most pathetic lightweight she has ever seen. Back before Guardian… back before things started to fall apart, Guardian had taken the two of them out for drinks in celebration of finding all the modules in the West. A bottle and a half later, Drifter was already a gibbering mess. One more bottle after that, and it was lights out for him.  _ Perfect _ .

“Well, you might want to rethink that vow,” Alt suggested, with a hint of a laugh. She’d take any scrap of humor she could find at this point, but Drifter glared at her with apprehension in his eyes. She dug her flask out of her pack. Alt always brought a bit of booze along with her on expeditions because a couple sips helped her relax enough to fall asleep. She’d love a drink right now, but Drifter needed every last drop he could get.

* * *

 

While Drifter wasn’t quite as out of it as Alt hoped he’d be, he looked much more relaxed. His head rested back against a makeshift pillow Alt had made for him by rolling up his capes. His eyes were shut, and he was humming some tune that she couldn’t place. Drifter’s companion bot had tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and it softly chirped along to the same song. Alt hoped the alcohol would be enough to take the edge off, but her gut feeling still doubted it.

Alt started working on Drifter’s healthier leg first, extracting the shrapnel with some tweezers she found by scrounging around the room again. Drifter occasionally grumbled in protest, but appeared mostly oblivious to what was going on. Drifter did have a hell of a pain tolerance after all. Maybe that mixed with alcohol  _ would _ be enough? When all the fragments she could find had been removed, she jabbed him with a small dose of medpack injection. Just enough to only affect his one leg. The cuts stitched themselves together and the burns faded and smoothed slightly. That was the easy part down.

Alt wasn’t sure how long she was standing around hesitating, the hilt of Drifter’s sword gripped painfully tight in her palm. She wanted to wait for some excuse or reason she wouldn’t have to do this, but she knew one wouldn’t come, and Drifter was bound to be running out of time. He’d already lost a lot of blood, and his skin was a sickly shade of chalky blue. His bot pinged its medical alert again, reinforcing her concerns.

Alt swallowed hard. “...Do you want a countdown or anything?”

Drifter made an inquisitive sound, and it took him a moment to realize what she was asking. “S’prise me,” he slurred.

Alt flicked the blade on, the blue light glinting in her eye in the dim room. She allowed herself to dillydally for just a little while longer before she forced herself to act. Drifter may have declined the countdown, but Alt herself still needed it, lest she linger indefinitely.

Three… Alt lined the blade up to a point ten or so centimeters below his knee.

Two… She raised the sword straight up and willed her arm to stop trembling.

One… She drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to remain focused.

Zero.

Drifter screamed. A high, shrill scream that quickly gave way to hyperventilating. His body went ridged and his back arched off the table. Alt placed her hand on his chest and pushed him back down, absent-mindedly telling him over and over to relax and be still. She didn’t look at his face. She didn’t need to see it right now.

With one arm, Alt pressed down on Drifter’s thigh, keeping his leg in place while he continued to thrash. She did the best she could to strip away flesh from bone, but the length of the blade make it awkward. She wished she could use both hands to keep the blade steadier, but alas.

The towel Alt had covered the table with was almost completely soaked through with fuschia, even with the tourniquet cutting off some circulation. Alt kept working, despite the smell, despite the tacky blood soaking through her gloves, and despite Drifter’s incoherent begging for her to stop. She’d love to oblige him, but instead she compelled herself to be cold-hearted. She numbed her mind and felt nothing, heard nothing. She worked like a machine.

By the time Alt truly grasped reality again, she was already suturing. Wondering if she had done everything right, Alt started to replay everything in her mind, but she stopped herself. Thinking of what she had done only made her feel sick, and she still had to finish the job. Alt reminded herself that she only needed to suture enough to hold things in place for a medpack’s regenerative effect to mend the flesh together. She removed the tourniquet, and plunged the medpack’s needle into Drifter’s thigh. He tensed as the medication coursed through his veins, but soon relaxed as the heavy painkillers kicked in. Alt never ceased to be awestruck as she watched skin knit together before her eyes. She’d seen it work on her own flesh inumerous times.

Alt finally dared to look at Drifter’s face, only to find that she couldn’t see it. He had his arm laid a crossed his face, but she could still see the edges of his mask soaked with tears. His other hand was clenching a fistfull of his cloak, and his chest still heaved with quick, shallow gasps. Throughout the whole ordeal, Drifter’s companion bot had continued to croon the same song Drifter had been humming earlier.

Alt tore her gaze away and looked back at the severed leg. She could taste bile in the back of her throat as she wrapped it up in the bloody towel underneath it and dumped it in the farthest corner of the room. It would have to be properly disposed of soon, but for now she just wanted to be done with the whole ordeal. Just for a little bit.

Peeling off her soiled gloves, Alt realized that she was a bigger mess that she initially thought. Blood was spattered all up her gauntlets and a bit on her shirt and pants, so she removed as much clothing as she decently could. The air smelt even sicker without her helmet ever so slightly filtering it out. Alt reflexively raised her arm to wipe off the sweat that beaded on her forehead, but she realized that her hands were still stained with fuschia. She did her best to wash them off by taking one of the clean towels and moistening it with some bottled water, but it did an inadequate job. Eventually, Alt just gave up the clean-up effort entirely. She was exhausted, mentally drained, and becoming aware of the moisture building in the corner of her eye.

Drifter still hadn’t moved from the position he was in previously. Alt sat down next to him on the table, and gently rested her hand on his shoulder, just to let him know she was there for him if he needed her. She didn’t want to push his personal space boundaries right now. Drifter lowered his arm from his face. His eyes were still damp and swollen, and the rest of his face still had an unnaturally pale hue.

Drifter struggled to sit upright. Alt considered discouraging him from doing so, but she was too weary to bother stopping him. Instead, she gingerly help him up. Drifter removed his mask, revealing a bloody lower lip riddled with puncture wounds from where he’d bitten it. Alt cursed herself for not remembering to give him something to bite down on. Just as she was wondering why he removed his mask, her question was immediately answered by Drifter lurching over the side of the table and vomiting. Alt quickly caught him around the waist to keep him from falling off. Drifter shook feebly as he sputtered and coughed, and Alt could feel sweat soaking through his shirt. Honestly, Alt wished she could join him, but her body wouldn’t indulge her, and left her with an unsatisfactory burn in her mouth.

After Drifter’s nausea passed, he slumped against Alt’s side. She moved the hand she had at his waist up to his shoulder and gave him a gentle half-hug, still being cautious about overwhelming his personal space.

Something in Alt’s heart finally broke, and the unbearable weight of the whole situation came down and threatened to smother her. She wanted to cling to Drifter, to hold him in her arms and never let go, as if it would keep him safe. Keep him alive. Alt suppressed so much after Guardian died. She had told herself never to get so close to people. Alt knew that, as a drifter, people died all the time. Any day, any moment could be the end of the line for you or your allies. You just had to deal with death and move on, but now she couldn’t. Guardian’s death had felt like an anchor dragging her into the sea. All this time she was holding her breath, but now the grief was drowning her. It finally registered in Alt’s mind how close Drifter had come to being another anchor.

Drifter had fallen unconscious, his head resting on Alt’s shoulder. Alt was a sobbing wreck, and she was glad he wasn’t awake to see her break down. With her free arm, she grasped Drifter’s wrist and felt his pulse. She counted the beats and let the rhythm sooth her. Alt had a feeling she wouldn’t get much sleep tonight. Some irrational part of her was convinced that she needed to stay awake and keep watch of him or else his life would slip away from her. Like his heart would only keep going as long as she was there to count the beats.

* * *

 

At some indeterminate point in time, fatigue had gotten the better of Alt, and she had drifted off to sleep. She was groggy and confused when she first awoke, but was immediately thrown into a panic when she remembered what had transpired. Alt tried to scramble to her feet as fast as she could. She began to call out for Drifter, but she barely got through the first syllable before she slammed the top of her head into the underside of the table. She crumpled down to her knees, grasping at her head with her hands, trying to stifle the throbbing pain.

Alt heard a tiny, raspy voice above her call her name. She snapped her gaze upwards, and was met eye-to-eye with both Drifter and his bot peering down over the edge at her. His eyebrows were pressed together, bewildered and concerned. Alt staggered to her feet, still trying to get a grasp of the current situation. Drifter had been sleeping with Alt’s cloak as a blanket since his own was still acting as a pillow. It looked like the room had been cleaned up a little bit, but Alt barely had any memory of doing so. She was relieved to see Drifter alive, surprised to see him awake, and astonished to see him lucid.

“Are you okay?” Alt blurted out.

“What happened…?” Drifter asked her softly, ”I thought I heard-” Alt slapped her hands down onto the table, leaning on her arms in a way that got her face level with Drifter’s.

“Answer. My question.” she insisted, emphasizing each word.

“Um…” He recoiled a bit, “Well, my head’s killing me.”

“And…?” she prompted.

“...and my legs still hurt, I guess…” he mumbled, sounding a bit uncertain. Alt wanted to scream. She was being bombarded with a mix of emotions that she didn’t know how to deal with.

“That’s it?! That’s  _ all _ you have to say?” Hysteria crept into her voice. “Drifter, if there is  _ ANY _ point in your life where you have the right to complain, or to ask for help if you need it, or- or to be catered to, that point is  _ right now! _ ” Drifter had been shuffling away from Alt as she shouted, and had raised his arm defensively as if she was literally throwing words at him. He stared at her with a mixture of surprise, unease, and confusion. She stared back, awaiting a response.

“May I… c-complain that you’re being too loud?” Drifter asked hesitantly as he pressed a hand to his temple.

_ Right _ …  _ Hangover _ , Alt thought. She loosened up and let out a deep sigh, feeling guilty for her outburst. She answered softly, “Yes... Yes you can.” Drifter eased up as well, and timidly broke eye-contact.

“Truthfully… It hurts… It hurts a lot...” he admitted. “It feels like… I know it sounds stupid, but I… I swear I can still feel that one deep cut on my ankle.” Drifter tried to laugh off his unusual claim, but his chuckle spurred a weak coughing fit. Alt thought he looked miserable.

Alt straightened up and went to fetch another medpack for Drifter as she spoke, “Here’s my plan: If you feel well enough, I’m carrying you out of here. We’re going home. I don’t know exactly what we’re going to do when we get there, but we’ll worry about that later, ‘kay? For now, we just need to sneak out of this fucking place. I can have my drone defend us, but it won’t be much without my guidance… Stealth’s really our best option.”

“If things get bad… I could try to use my pistol,” Drifter suggested.

Alt chuckled as she put her helmet on. “Even injured, I don’t doubt your aim, but I still hope it doesn’t come down to that.” She pushed the cabinet blocking the door out of the way with a grunt, and then went to collect as much of her gear that she could haul while also carrying Drifter. They would leave a lot behind, but as per the drifter code, it would be here to help out any other drifters who dared to venture this far into the labs.

Both Alt’s and Drifter’s companion bots hovered near the door, ready and eager to go. Alt did one last check that she had everything of vital importance, and then turned to Drifter. “Ready to move out?”

Drifter nodded decisively, but still with an air of melancholy. “Let’s go home...”

* * *

 

Seasons passed. Alt had been expeditioning on her own again, but hadn’t been making any tangible progress towards finding modules in the South. Alt had become so used to traveling with Drifter or Guardian that the limitations of only being one person became blatantly obvious. The lack of progress made the weeks drag on.

Alt’s boots clacked against the uneven cobblestones on the road leading away from Central. The stones grew more and more sparse the further away you got from the city, until the road disappears completely, giving way to nature reclaiming the ruins of past civilizations. Concerned about the rougher road, Alt glanced over her shoulder to see how well Drifter was keeping up. Surely enough, he kept pace with her, despite the rudimentary prosthetic. All it really was was a metallic shin with a piece of flat, curved metal to emulate the rolling of a foot. A step up from a peg leg, really. Yet Drifter insisted on travelling with Alt for reconnaissance anyways. Drifter flashed her a smile, which she could only see by the slight raising of his cheeks, in a wordless sign that he was still going strong.

In Drifter’s defense, he got a lot of practice re-learning how to walk. A good drifter never sits still for long. Poor guy was practically climbing the walls after being bedridden for a few weeks. He still has difficulty jogging, and dashing is impossible without having boosters on both feet. Alt mulled over the idea of harassing the Dash Master into trying to make a better prosthetic that could handle a booster. Without mobility, Drifter’s attack and defense were terribly limited. It would be fine, Alt told herself. This was just a straightforward reconnaissance mission. Drifter could still help with scouting and mapping, and he could still contribute to fights from a safe distance with his rifle. He wasn’t useless. He wasn’t a burden. He still has a purpose, and he has the willpower to continue his mission until his dying breaths.

If there’s a will, there’s a way.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I've been slowly plugging away at this fic since July 11th. Went from a busy month to about two-three weeks of creative block. Glad to have finished it, though! And it's a new word count record for me! Why do my self-indulgent drabbles always turn into very much not drabbles? :1
> 
> I still really hate titles... So for the month and a half I've been working on this, the working title was "Great Googly Moogly, It's All Gone To Shit". Some of my friends insisted I keep the title... but I just can't, haha. This is serious business I do.


End file.
